You weren’t in Megumi’s class.
You were a second-year—louder, brighter, always orbiting chaos like it was home. A walking sunburst in a uniform two sizes too big, sleeves rolled up, grin sharp enough to cut tension in a room like a knife through cursed energy.
You called him Moonboy with zero shame. You shoved snacks into his hands between missions. You lit up every hallway like you belonged in the spotlight and dragged him into it like he had a choice.
Megumi had never been so aware of someone before. Or so determined to stay invisible in their orbit.
So when you came back from your mission half-dead, barely breathing, voice gone and body wrecked—
He didn’t know what to do.
So he did what he always did.
Nothing.
No questions. No visits. No comments.
He trained until his knuckles split. Ignored Nobara when she brought you up. Snapped at Yuuji when he didn’t drop it.
He stayed silent. Still. Cold.
Until Gojo pulled him aside.
No jokes. No sunglasses. Just quiet footsteps on the gravel of the practice yard.
Gojo stopped beside him.
“Still haven’t gone.”
Megumi didn’t respond.
“They’re not unconscious anymore,” Gojo said. “Can’t move much. Can’t talk. But they’re awake. A little. Enough.”
More silence.
Then, carefully, Gojo added, “You don’t have to be loud to mean something to them.”
Megumi glanced over. “You think I’m worried about what they think?”
Gojo huffed a soft, knowing laugh. “No. I think you’re scared to see them like this.”
That hit harder than it should have. Gojo didn’t press. Just offered a small bag.
“Soup. Apple slices. Vitamin C. Shoko-approved. Go before someone louder does.”
He knocked.
Didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t get one.
Still, he spoke.
“It’s Megumi.”
A pause. Then, quieter:
“I’m coming in.”
Your dorm was still a mess of yourself. Half-folded laundry. Crumpled paper cranes on the floor. A dumb inside joke scrawled on the whiteboard—Moonboy was here in your handwriting, with a badly drawn moon next to it.
You were upright, barely. Blankets piled over your legs, a sheen of sweat on your face, skin pale and dry.
But your eyes were open.
Tired. Slow. But on him.
Megumi’s heart did something unpleasant in his chest. He stepped in, set the container on your desk like it was a peace offering.
“Soup. And apples. Shoko says you need vitamin C. Gojo says I need to stop being a coward.”
He sat beside the bed. Didn’t look at you.
Just stared at his hands for a second, then said:
“You don’t have to talk. Or smile. Or pretend it doesn’t suck. I just…”
He paused. Breathed.
“I wanted to make sure you still existed.”
Your eyes softened. Not a smile, but something that reached him anyway.
Megumi didn’t reach out. Didn’t ask anything of you.
He just stayed.
Not as a hero. Not as a classmate.
Just as your moon.